


Shotgun Shuts His Cakehole

by sixtysevenlmpala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Impala Fic, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixtysevenlmpala/pseuds/sixtysevenlmpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Impala fic based on <a href="http://sixtysevenlmpala.tumblr.com/post/46641773361/i-just-really-want-to-write-something-about-how">a post I made</a>. Dean's developed a habit of voicing various, often damning confessions to Sam while he's asleep next to him in the passenger seat. It's totally not weird. Originally posted on <a href="http://sixtysevenlmpala.tumblr.com/post/46691051269/wow-ok-this-is-only-my-second-proper-wincest">tumblr</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shotgun Shuts His Cakehole

Dean does this _thing_ , okay, and it totally is not weird.

The first time he confesses something to Sam while he’s asleep, it’s the day after he picks him up from Stanford to look for Dad. It’s nothing particularly huge, and he doesn’t really think about it before he does it – the car’s silent because Sam would bitch him out for playing Zeppelin when he’s trying to sleep, and the highway’s stretching out in one long, grey, boring line in front of him, and maybe there’s a few unsaid things between them after all this time, so it just kind of. You know. Comes out.

“That hoodie’s the one you wore on our first hunt together. I remember it. Still got the stain on the cuff from that thing’s blood.”

He frowns at himself straight after, because he didn’t exactly plan to say it, but he doesn’t puzzle it out too much. It feels kind of good, actually. It wasn’t anything significant, but still something he’d have a hard time saying to Sam’s face right now, what with Sam’s constant I-don’t-want-to-be-here vibes and snarky expressions and general bitchiness coupled with the awkwardness of rekindling this after so long.

After that, it’s like he’s opened some kind of floodgates, and he sort of just. Doesn’t bother to close them. A half-hour later, Sam still passed out in the passenger seat next to him, Dean looks over and tells him quietly, “Y’know, when you correct ‘Sammy’ to ‘Sam’, it kinda hurts a lot.” Sam doesn’t stir, eyes shifting a little under his eyelids, and Dean sweeps his eyes over him one more time before turning back to the road.

A few days later, his voice is grave and it’s, “I’m sorry about Jess, Sam. You have no idea how much I wish I could do something to make it better.”

The week after that, it’s, “I don’t think your hair’s stupid. I like it long. Like when you wear your bangs over your forehead.” He sucks in a breath and adds, “Looks good.” He coughs quietly. “For a girl.”

But it’s not always confessions woven through with pansy feelings, the words that make up the very essence of chick-flick moments. Sometimes, it’s just something he feels guilty about, something Sam would get pissy with him for if he said it while he was awake. One time, for instance, it’s, “Hey, Sam, it was actually me who ate your last health bar, not you. It wasn’t even a little bit good.”

Another time: “I accidentally wore your favourite boxers the other night back in Michigan and then accidentally left them at this chick’s apartment. Sorry, dude.”

But the odd truth slips out that’s too close to his heart, still. Like when he tells Sam’s sleeping form that it wasn’t exactly accidental when he came back to the motel tipsy the night before and collapsed in Sam’s bed instead of his own. It’s okay, though; no one knows about these moments in the Impala with a Sam who’s lost in undoubtedly troubled dreams, no one knows how sometimes he opens up to the little brother in the passenger seat that makes up his entire world. No one knows, so it’s okay. Dean can pretend it doesn’t even happen.

***

Sam’s in the middle of a typically weird dream, full of tendrils of flames that transform into the curls of Jess’s hair and the ruby red curve of her smile, and she’s talking to him but he can’t understand any of it, can’t quite reach her either. Touching her is like thrusting his hand into a furnace. It’s the norm for his sleep, these days. He’s used to it. It makes his heart ache enough to disturb his slumber with the pain of it, sometimes, but he’s used to it.

This time, though, there’s something off. There’s another voice filtering into his thoughts, like a timid tap to a window in the middle of the night, and he’s straining to hear it, to look past the haunting image of Jess calling to him and smiling at him and reaching out to run her fingertips along his cheek. And all of a sudden it’s clear as day, like someone’s given up and thrown a freakin’ brick through that window instead. It’s Dean’s voice, Dean talking to him, and Sam spares a moment to wonder why Dean’s in his dream before he registers the words.

“Every night when you were at Stanford, I still said that same old ‘goodnight, Sammy,’ to the empty space in my bed. Whatever motel we were at, still the same.”

Sam’s heart rate picks up and his brain whirrs into life as he tries to figure out what the hell Dean’s doing, what he means, and he wakes up as if he’s a deep-sea diver resurfacing finally – but keeps his eyes closed. He can hear the distinctive, homely rumble of the Impala beneath him, smell Dean’s cheap aftershave, and he knows, _knows_ he’s awake, now. But he keeps himself still and his breathing even, and sure enough, Dean speaks again.

“I dunno, it was kinda comforting – thought that if I kept saying it you’d come back and it’d be like nothing had changed. Made it hurt a little less that you’d left.”

After that, Sam doesn’t sleep so well in the Impala anymore.

***

It becomes almost routine, although Dean doesn’t know it. Dean will say something like, “Get some shut-eye, kiddo,” as they get into the car and he takes the wheel, and Sam will roll his eyes at the nickname and put up a token little-brother argument about wanting to drive the car, then inevitably settle down in shotgun. But he won’t sleep. He’ll let his eyes droop and slow his breathing, keep himself still and slumped down in the seat, looking to all the world like he is sleeping, but he’s not.

He just wants to listen.

Some days, Dean doesn’t say anything. Sam lies there, faking sleep and hearing nothing but the rhythmic tap of Dean’s fingers against the steering wheel to the tune of some classic rock song or another, or Dean humming under his breath, or talking to himself, little mutters of, “Next left—no, right,” or, “Should be around here.”

But sometimes he hears more, and those are the times he has to fight to keep the fond smile from tugging at his lips and giving his game away.

***

They’ve been on the road for three days straight, travelling across about fifty billion states – or at least, that’s how it seems – to get to a case in the opposite end of the country. A number who’s supposedly Dad has texted them some bullshit coordinates – that’s what Sam’s calling them in his head, anyway – and Dean’s dead-set on getting there ASAP. When Dean’s determined to get somewhere, he likes to be the one to drive; says Sam can’t floor it hard enough, and yet when Sam does put his foot down, Dean gets all antsy that he’s gonna crash the car, so it’s easier for all involved to hand the responsibility over to Dean.

Over the last few days, Sam’s heard a colourful array of confessions from his brother in those hours where he’s ‘asleep’ that spark a flutter in his chest every time, and make him bite his cheek to keep from replying. Everything from, “I don’t actually think your whole library thing is nerdy. Well, okay, it is, but it’s good, Sam. I couldn’t do it,” to, “I know I should feel guilty taking you away from college and your perfect-ass apple-pie life, Sammy, but I can’t do it. You belong here, not there. I… need you to belong here.”

To, “That chick from the bar _was_ into you. You’re an idiot for not going for it. You had an in. Was kinda glad you didn’t, though. You could do better.”

To, “Sometimes I just wanna hug you, Sammy, and I don’t fuckin’ know why.”

To, “You were in my dream last night.”

To, “I’m sorry I want you so much.” And then, “Christ, I’m sorry I’m so fucked up over you.”

It’s the most difficult thing in the world for Sam not to let his eyes fly open in shock over that last one, but he manages it, digs the fingernails of his right hand into his thigh on the opposite side from Dean with the effort of it. When a few minutes have passed in silence, he risks cracking an eye open. Dean’s gaze is fixed on the road and he looks utterly miserable, his mouth a grim line. If Sam didn’t know better, he’d say he was about to cry, but he knows it takes a lot more for Dean to even consider it. Sam gives a little sigh and flutters his eyes closed, finally drifting away into a sleep that’s all too real.

***

The next day is the day they’re meant to reach their destination, although Sam’s still convinced they’re lost. “We’re not lost, asshat,” Dean had said to him, “I know what I’m doin’.”

“Right, okay,” Sam replied, shrugging. “But you’re also dead at the wheel, dude. Let me drive for a couple hours.”

It took some grumbling and some prodding, but eventually Dean did pull over and let them switch, so now Sam’s sitting in the driver’s seat with a quietly snoring Dean curled up next to him. The sky is streaked with dusky pinks and ambers, and the soft light falls across Dean’s face, clinging to his cheekbone and the plump curve of his lip. Sam observes it and feels that familiar twist in his stomach that he’s felt when he looks at Dean ever since he was fifteen years old. He looks away quickly, correcting the slight swerve he was leaning into.

“It’s okay, you know,” he murmurs, glancing over warily. Dean keeps snoring. “It’s… not just you. We’re both fucked up, Dean.” Dean doesn’t even twitch, and Sam lets out a breath. He maybe gets why Dean does this, although it’s kind of weird. It feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders – maybe only a feather’s worth, but it’s a start.

Sam keeps driving, breathing carefully and avoiding potholes in a selfish attempt to keep Dean sleeping.

Half an hour passes.

“I don’t mind you calling me Sammy. Reminds me of back then. You were happier back then.”

One minute.

“I hate when you call me kiddo, though. But at the same time it… kinda makes me smile. I’m not really sure why, but it does.”

Twenty minutes.

“The scratch on the Impala wasn’t from that vengeful spirit thing a couple states back. It was my motel key. I was pissed at you. You ate my last health bar. And they _are_ good.”

Another twenty.

“Sometimes you make me so angry I don’t know whether to shut you up by punching you or kissing you.”

Ten.

“I couldn’t spend a night in college without thinking about calling you.”

Four seconds.

“I couldn’t spend a night with… with Jess, without thinking about you.”

Sam sighs heavily and rubs an absent hand over his mouth in a pitiful attempt to stem the flow of words. Dean’s still snoring and mumbling unintelligible things in his sleep, so at least there’s that, but Sam’s getting a little worried because he just can’t _stop_. It’s so addictive to pretend, just for a moment or two, that he’s actually saying these things to Dean, and that he’s actually listening.

“I don’t know how to tell you I _want_ you,” Sam says in a frustrated grunt, punctuating it with a thud of his palm against the steering wheel, at the exact same un-fucking-lucky moment as a huge oil tanker roars past them, honking its horn for no apparent reason. A panic rises up in Sam’s throat and _fuckfuckfuckfuck what if he’s awake he’ll freak he probably never meant it like that oh god maybe he didn’t hear it over the noise oh shit what if he did he probably did oh my god he’s waking up fuckfuckfuck—_

“Sam.”

Sam swallows and looks over to his brother, who’s sitting bolt upright and staring him straight in the face. “Yes?” he tries.

“Did you… was that. Did you mean that?” Dean demands, his eyes boring into Sam’s and his hand gripping tight onto Sam’s knee. “You fucking tell me you meant that,” he says with the same force behind it, but with a softening of the lines of his mouth.

“I, uh. I… maybe?” Sam ventures, looking anxiously between Dean and the road. His skin suddenly feels too tight, and he feels like he’s forgotten how to talk. “I-I hear you, sometimes, too.”

Dean stares unblinkingly at him, his lips twitching like he’s trying out different responses, rolling them around on his tongue only to discard them and try another. Eventually, he mutters softly, “You fucker,” then, “I _knew_ you were awake,” and then Dean’s _on_ him, strong fingers gripping his jaw and turning his head to the side so Dean’s lips – Dean’s _lips_ , holy shit – can drag up along his jaw and find Sam’s own.

Sam’s still driving, frantically trying to keep one eye on the road and one hand on the wheel as the other reaches for a fistful of Dean’s leather jacket, holding tight and keeping him close. Dean’s mouth is hot as sin and it’s so good, so much like he’d imagined it and yet so much more than that, because this is as real as the tiny pinpricks of stubble that are grazing Sam’s skin and as real as Dean’s thumb pressing into his pulse point, making him shudder. Sam’s hand clenches on the wheel and he swerves, uncoordinated. “Dean,” he gasps, “I can’t—“

“Holy shit,” Dean curses gruffly, pulling back enough to get one hand on the wheel with Sam’s just before Sam sends them both careering into the crash barrier at the side of the road. “There’s a side road just up ahead,” Dean mumbles into Sam’s neck, and the feeling of his breath washing over Sam’s skin sends goosebumps skittering over his body and pushes a keening noise out of his head. “You’re gonna pull the fuck over right there before you kill us both.”

Sam starts to protest that it would really be all _Dean’s_ fault if they happened to crash and die in this particular circumstance, but then Dean’s mouthing at his neck, all soft lips and clever tongue flicking over his skin, and he’s murmuring sweet somethings about how he’s waited so long for this and how if he’d known Sam would taste so fucking good he’d have done this sooner, so all that Sam manages to get out is a choked, “Y-yeah, ‘kay.”

So Sam pulls over. Before the car’s even shut off, he finds himself with a lapful of older brother, and Dean grants him a dashing, wolfish grin before he fits their mouths together again, teasing Sam into a sliding, biting mess of a kiss that’s so fucking perfect Sam could cry.

Then there’s hands tearing at Sam’s shirt, fingers scrabbling at zippers, panted breaths shared in the bare inches between their open mouths. Sam clutches at Dean through it all, not wanting to let him go for a second, not even thinking about letting him go until a lot later, when the windows have fogged up and the air in the car has turned humid and heavy with the scent of what they’ve done.

Dean passes out afterwards, managing to mumble a few nonsense words like, “Did so good, Sammy,” and, “Fucking love you, you idiot,” before he does so. Sam zips him up and readjusts his clothes for him, then eases him off of him and into the passenger seat, where he curls up with his forehead pressed against the window.

Sam spares a moment to bask in the afterglow, let it sink in that _that actually fucking happened_ , before he pulls his shirt back on over his head, runs a hapless hand through his hair because it’s sticking up in tufts where Dean was tugging on it, and starts up the car.

Ten minutes pass.

He looks over, notes all the usual signs that Dean has completely crashed. “You look pretty when you sleep,” he says softly.

At the praise, a pleased, barely-there smile plays with the corners of Dean’s mouth, taunting them into quirking upwards by the tiniest bit. Sam won’t notice, though; Dean’s discreet. He’s had practice with these things.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, feel free to leave a comment/kudos if you liked!


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